


Sight's Steady, Trigger's Cold

by pariahpirate (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, SniperRat, alternative universe, i feel like I should apologize but also no, ymmv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of love in five acts between a prideful dragon and a childish rat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> You really don't have to take this seriously this is maximum indulgence at 4 am

It starts with the Junker's filthy steel trap.

"Mate - can you come here a tick?" Junkrat says, words and manic laughter mixing as he all but dances around his newly set trap. It's a terrible spot for a trap in Hanzo's opinion, fully in view of the enemy.

Hanzo does, though. He leaps from the rooftop he had chosen to perch, landing elegantly as always, and moves towards the overly-excitable man. Narrowed eyes regard the Junker, practically bursting at the seams with repulsive glee.

"What do you want, Junker?" Hanzo demands, his voice authoritative and terse. He crosses his arms and the look the action draws is not lost to him. The half-a-second-too-long stare, the not-so-subtle biting of chapped, chewed, and bloody lower lip. Disgusting man.

"Right, right! Stand here!" Junkrat crows, his face split by a wide toothy smile as he points to a somewhat general spot on ground. Coming from his mouth, the words don't at all sound like an order. Perhaps that's what compelled Hanzo to continue humoring the younger man.

Hanzo moves. Junkrat sticks his tongue out in rapt concentration, eyes darting from his trap to Hanzo's feet.

"Lil more to the left - there! Aces!" Junkrat's high-pitched laughter echoes. It's loudness it's a nuisance and will give away their positions. No doubt their enemies already know of their presence. Hanzo is irritated and running out of time to find a new rooftop.

"Ok, ok, now shoot straight up, full power!" Junkrat twitches and grins and giggles and Hanzo has never known anyone so childish before. Annoying creature.

Regardless of his distaste for the man before him, Hanzo nocks an arrow and draws. He fires. Junkrat immediately pushes him behind a nearby car. They're hardly hidden and Hanzo fails to understand the purpose of this endeavor. Until, of course, the results come forth.

Talon grunts filter out of the train station and Junkrat cackles as he hits the glowing red button of a detonator. An explosion follows suit. Several Talon members collapse right then and there - either unconscious or worse from the sudden blast. One of their enemies, a particularly unfortunate fellow, is launched into the jaws of Junkrat's trap where they are immediately struck in the throat by Hanzo's returning arrow. Junkrat slaps a hand over his mouth to restrain his welling laughter.

"How's that for simple geometry?" Junkrat beams up at Hanzo. His wide smile is radiant. There are freckles underneath all that filth and soot, a smattering upon sharp features. Hanzo feels color rise to his cheeks and somehow that makes the other man's smile even brighter.

"There are still enemies!" He has to make an effort to keep his voice even. This fact is highly unnerving.

"Oh! Right!" Junkrat's eyes glow as he recalls the mission. Hanzo has to suppress his intense frustration. He is angry because Junkrat is forgetful. Because Junkrat is a filthy common criminal and definitely not because of those freckles or that smile.

" 'ere we go!" Another wide, toothy smile is flashed his way as the Junker pulls out another detonator. He flips the cap and presses the softly glowing red button. There's a long string of explosions that follow the basic rhythm of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture accompanied by many, many pained screams.

Junkrat is humming along, eyes closed and the index of his flesh hand moving in a distinctly conductor-like fashion. The man is more than Hanzo had given him credit for and he's unsure how to handle that.

"See?" Junkrat cracks an eye open, peering at him like a particularly sly cat, "An easy job."

"There are undoubtably more." He retorts. He maintains his voice is civil. It most certainly was not snippy.

"Best go find 'em then, right mate?" The Junker elbows him, grinning and cackling and Hanzo feels every bit of him, every fiber in his being, lock up and freeze.

"Cheers, cobber!" The younger man crows before tossing a mine a ways away. He skips off,m and salutes Hanzo as he steps on the mine's smiling face. It detonates beneath the madman's feet with the click of a button and he's off, sailing through the air like the oddest sparrow Hanzo has ever had the misfortune to meet.

And yet ...

He cannot stop staring, long after the smoke had cleared.

 

  
And that is how it starts.


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It escalates with a training exercise

It escalates in the wake of a group training exercise.

  
"What are you doing here?" Hanzo's voice is sharper than he intended it to be. Part of him mourns his lack of tact and manners. Had his mother still been alive, she would have wept, ashamed of her son's coarse, frigid demeanor, but the Junker doesn't at all seem perturbed by his rudeness or his blunt question. He merely looks up at Hanzo, up from the ancient wood-and-metal bolt-action rifle in his lap. Hanzo feels his breath catch when their eyes meet. He sees a reflection of his soul in those bright gold eyes. Saw it burning, burning, burning ...

"Was invited, mate. Same as you!" He beams up at Hanzo, sharp teeth like imperfect cream pearls. Hanzo's reaction is immediate and met violent suppression. No. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs and clears his mind.

"I was under the impression this was a training exercise for ...," he pauses, eyes trailing over the relic in the man's lap, "... snipers."

It is a practice in restraint, as he holds back further words. Insults. Biting things. They curl about his tongue, behind his teeth as those burning eyes look at him and show him his soul, his ruined soul, filthier than the man before him has ever been. He has to tear his own eyes away.

Freckles.

"You got that one, mate." Junkrat barks out a laugh. It echoes across the training field and the morning mist, "Haven't a clue why they want me here. Honestly. I ain't a sniper, not by a long shot, no sir-"

"Do not sell yourself short, Jamison." A newcomer arrives, sporting a motherly voice. Hanzo stiffens. It's former Captain Amari. She had been an exceptional sniper before her reported death. Hanzo is willing to bet that the years and loss of her eye have not influenced that ability in the slightest. She does not arrive alone, two figures trailing behind her in the mist.

"Wh- but-" Junkrat - _Jamison_ \- splutters, scrambling to his feet.

"Best listen to her, partner." The infernal cowman is discernible through the fog now, only a few paces behind the older sniper. His smile is lazy and deplorable, and his voice too fond. Something in Hanzo boils. It's hatred, he determines. "You're a damn fine shot."

With that, McCree winks at Junkrat ( _Jamison_ ), who flushes up to the roots of his patch blond hair. Hanzo snorts at the ridiculous antics. He isn't the only one to respond either.

The third figure emerges from the mist, and it is Talon's former assassin. She's under Overwatch protection. Rehabilitation, at one of the member's insistence. Her scoff is fixed towards the cowman. Hanzo notes that she is missing a canine tooth. It is somewhat gratifying to see the feared assassin to be brought down, even if the proof is as something small as a gap in that picture perfect sneer.

"Repulsive bushman." She spits, eyeing Junkrat ( _Jamison!_ ) warily. She takes one look at the relic clutched in the Junker's hands and smirks, "Even further proof you do not belong."

Hanzo narrows his eyes, something unfamiliar stirring in his core. He does not trust the woman, the former tool, the lost little weapon. He also does not particularly enjoy her arrogance. One shot, one kill indeed...

Junkrat looks at Widowmaker. Blinks. His eyes are wide and opened, innocent panes of gold and glass that hold unnerving power. Hanzo hopes they reflect the evils within her soul as they do his. He hopes it wounds, stirs up what little humanity she has left. He hopes it hurts.

Junkrat looks at Widowmaker. Looks down at the rifle in his hands, then back at her. A grin sneaks across his features, growing wider and darker with each passing moment. He slides a taunting finger down his sharp collarbone, hooking it around a thin leather cord necklace. He brings it up, dangling the little charm that hangs off cord. It's small and white and perfectly resembles ...

A tooth?

There's a sharp inhale from the blue woman, full of barely with-held rage. She snaps away, long dark hair flowing about her as she storms.

"What's the matter sheila?" The Junker's voice is suprisingly lacking malice - it's practically jovial, "S' okay to miss a shot or two -" his smile turns mischievous " - you know, when your first startin' out."

The cowman snorts. Captain Amari hides a smile and chuckle behind her hand. Talon's infamous Widowmaker fumes, nostrils flaring and gold eyes narrowed like daggers. Junkrat cackles, laughing with his whole body, in shivers and shakes and high manic giggles.

"I know I ain't no sniper!" The Junker wheezes, breath short, chest heaving, laughter spilling from chapped lips, "Don't belong here -" He spreads his arms, gesturing to everyone and everything around his seated form, " - ain't my thing. But Cap'n here said I oughta come anyways."

"Jamison." The old sniper chides, adjusting the rifle slung across her back, "You are an excellent shot. Unorthodox, yes."

"You are a talented sniper, even if you don't believe so." She places her hand on the patchy blond hair, perpetually singed and smoking. Her smile is motherly, gentle and fond, and Hanzo feels a pang of sorrow as Amari's form wavers, replaced by a long departed ghost.

"Now come." She says, voice commanding, "Let's begin."

The exercise is simple. Excluding the cowman and Amari, both of which were observing (Amari, doubling as the overseeing medic for the exercise) and were going to be flitting about the field and doing whatever they see fit to make sure there's a challenge, they were to find a good spot to nest, try to flush out the other snipers, and fend of waves of specially programmed training bots for a total of three hours. The exercise is pitting the three of them against each other. It's a contest despite McCree's insistence. It's a contest, and Hanzo will win.

McCree puts two fingers to his lips. The whistle he produces is obscenely loud and it's their signal to run. To hide. Upon the signal, Widowmaker shoots off with her grappling hook, heading East. Hanzo takes to the high ground, dashing up buildings and ledges as he heads northwards to the highest vantage point the area possesses. Perhaps from there he'll be able to see through the fog.

In his haste to get ahead, he loses sight of Junkrat. Thinking about him is distracting. The disgusting, giggly, immature man - he looked so out of place among Overwatch's sharpshooters, clutching that outdated rifle like a lifeline. He had been laughing, smiling, burning so brightly that nobody had thought to watch anything other than his joy. It was a farce, a sham, a lie. Underneath the initial layer there was pain. Perhaps even fear. The whiteness of the Junker's knuckles, the tightness of his grip, testify as much.

He doubles back, making an effort to maintain the ideal level of stealth as he moves on the rooftops. He doesn't see much through the mist, nothing more than the blurred forms of a few patrolling bots. He holds the advantage in this exercise. With his long experience with riflemen, he knows both his opponents will find a place to nest and keep there, moving only if necessary.

He hears the crack of a rifle shot and he all but runs towards the sound. He makes sure to keep low and carefully choose his steps so as to keep them as close to silent as possible.

He spies Widowmaker easily enough in the slowly clearing mist. She's out of her element, clearly, crouched awkwardly on the edge of a catwalk. Her ridiculous headdress covers her eyes. Hanzo snorts. A pathetic gimmick, having to rely on her infrared sight to find her enemies.

She throws out her arm, letting lose with her grappling hook to change positions. There's another crack of a rifle, and Widowmaker falls mid-swing. For a moment Hanzo believes that she had been shot down with the rubber bullets but no, no the shot had been more inventive than that. Wherever Junkrat had been positioned, lying in wait along the ground, he had lined up his shot for the base of Widowmaker's grappling hook, breaking its grip and sending the other sharpshooter plummeting. Hanzo doesn't dare waste the presented opportunity. He nocks an arrow and fires, drawing back only enough to remain mostly hidden as he watches the rubber-tipped arrow fly true.

It hits the target, just below the shoulder blades, a little to the left, a shot through the heart, had it been a real arrow. He watches Widowmaker stumble forward. There's another crack, from a different direction, and Talon's special prizes assassin falls down from the painful shot to her ankle. The shot was too precise to be an accident, Hanzo determines, it had to have been purposeful. Junkrat had aimed for Widowmaker's ankle, a tiny still moving target. Impressive.

Not an orthodox sniper then, but still one of respectable skill. He'll have to adjust his strategy. Hanzo sneaks off, mind turning over possibility after possibility to the soft backdrop of cheery gold. His dragons stir, like an itch underneath his skin.

He does well in eliminating the training bots that seek him out. Quiet. Efficient. Soon he's left a respectable trail of them. Sometimes he sees glimpses of Amari or McCree, darting about the field themselves, observing up close. He pays no attention to them, nor does he pay attention to the loud exchanges of rifle fire.

Until, of course, it draws too close.

He hears a crack and moves towards cover, but the shot still finds a mark. It hits his shoulder, and it hits hard, leaving a near-instant bruise. He grits his teeth as his grip on his bow falters. He dives behind the cover of a building.

Junkrat is there. He looks startled. Panicked. Cornered and half curled up in a crouch. His flesh hand curls and uncurls compulsively at his side, reaching for explosives that aren't there. He is also covered in chilled mud - the subtle shudders, the goose flesh up and down the exposed skin give it away. So that is how he was evading Widowmaker's infrared sight. Clever rat.

Hanzo meets the Junker's gaze, bears witness to the hesitant smile, and lowers his bow slowly. He finds himself offering a small smile in return. It's nowhere near as wide or bright or earnest or - no, nothing at all like Junkrat's effortless smile.

Freckles.

Hanzo doesn't even notice he's staring. It is the loud siren, the end of the exercise, that tears him from his stupor.

"You good mate?" Junkrat cocks his head. He even looks concerned, sincerely concerned. Hanzo cannot meet his gaze.

"I am fine." He says quickly, drawing back and loosening his stance.

There is a spell of silence. A shakey lull.

"You make a fine sniper." Hanzo breaks the silence, addressing his filthy companion but pointedly refusing to look at him. He feels the innocence, the genuine surprise in Junkrat's open-mouthed stare.

He excuses himself with a bow and if that bow was, perhaps, deeper than the departing bow he gave to Amari and McCree, well ... nobody needs to know.

  
This is, after all, how it escalates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a scale of 1 to 10, how Gay is Hanzo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse with the “botched” mission to King’s Row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not proud of this chapter I wrote it all in one day and didnt proofread it at all here you go it's vomit but hey
> 
> at least it's gay

It gets worse with the “botched” mission to King’s Row.   
  
“Don’t see why we gotta help.” Junkrat’s arms are crossed and pulled tight to his chest, looking every bit the petulant child as he grumpily clambers aboard the plane, eyeing Zenyatta’s back as the omnic engages in some meaningless conversation with Reinhardt.

 

“C’mon Rat, don’t be like that! We’re heroes! S’ our job to help people!” Tracer’s voice is light and airy and far too chipper. It’s too early to be so energetic and cheery, Gibraltar's morning dew hasn’t even seen the sunrise. 

 

Roadhog grunts. Junkrat interprets this as agreement with his prejudice, “See? Roadie ‘grees with me!”

 

Tracer sighs, slings an arm around Junkrat, pulling the man close. Hanzo feels his dragons stir with - with what? What feeling?

 

“They’re jus’ people, mate. Metal people.” She says, and Junkrat scoffs.

 

Hanzo frowns. Adjusts his bow. He takes a seat for take-off, and begins regulating his breathing. He closes his eyes. Empties his mind. He tries to meditate, but he can’t focus. The hold is too loud and distracting.

  
“No, Reinhardt! Please! You gotta believe me! I’m the banana!”

“Mate, jus’ look at her. Look at her face. She’s lying through her teeth, she is.”

 

Ridiculous. They’re ridiculous. 

 

He’s laughing. It’s an incredible sound. Incredibly distracting. Hanzo grits his teeth, closes his eyes, but his mind is a field of gold. It echoes with laughter. Maintaining even breathing becomes very, very difficult. He wanted to meditate before the mission. Instead if feels like he’s struggling to stay afloat in a bottomless sea, where the wind brings the echos of freedom and the scent of fire.

  
They arrive at the square and set up a defensive perimeter. Hanzo finds a rooftop position that’s advantageous from most angles. From below he can watch Junkrat and Tracer scuttle about, laying traps and scouting around. Reinhardt, Roadhog and Zenyatta stay by the garage that hides the bomb.

 

Hanzo inhales, 1, 2, 3, 4 - slow. He nocks an arrow. His dragons coil within him.

  
It goes to shit, as Junkrat himself put it. Talon’s forces had been twice as numerous as anticipated, and far more heavily armed. They wasted no expense for this mission - which that alone is sinister in its insinuations. After the disappearance of their prize assassin (she’s all but locked up within Gibraltar's halls), Talon no doubt had to make up for their losses.

 

They were forced to retreat. Tracer had a number of broken ribs. Reinhard had suffered some sort of head wound despite his helmet. He himself had suffered a number of clips from bullets, both stray and poorly aimed. Zenyatta’s left arm had nearly been blown off, and Junkrat’s prosthetic actually had.

 

“We should hurry.” Hanzo says, not coldly, not harshly, “We do not want to be within range of the blast.” He casts a glance towards Zenyatta.    
  


“Oh nah, that bomb ain’t a problem. Not anymore!” Junkrat pipes up, giggling.

 

_ “What?” _

 

"We disarmed it." Junkrat shrugs, waving a wrench dismissively (when? where?), sharing a look with Tracer.

 

"S' jus' like a larger version of my pulse bombs. No biggy." Tracer adds, equally blithe on the matter. The two share another look between them, and they both crack wide smiles, bursting into peals of laughter.

 

Junkrat’s gold eyes lock onto his and he winks. Hanzo feels his soul lurch, sees himself burning in the deep molten gold, and then it’s over. The eye contact broken as Reinhardt gives a joyous shout, congratulating the team’s youngests for their foresight and quick work, firm claps on the back for both, and massive smiles for all. Roadhog grunts, to which Junkrat beams at, so it likely meant something positive to the younger Junker. Hanzo himself feels everything he is grind to a halt. His mouth is dry, his limbs and tongue are heavy. He can’t even feel the pain from his own wounds.

 

Gold.

 

_ Freckles _ .

 

“Now shut up and sit still, you no-good bucket a’ bolts.” Junkrat is sitting criss-crossed on the floor of the plane, Zenyatta sitting beside him, his mangled arm held out as the Junker one-handedly works on short-term repairs. Reinhardt had opened his mouth to question, but Tracer had clapped her hands over his mouth, wonder in her eyes.

 

Junkrat hates omnics, much like Zaryanova hated omnics. This wasn’t unknown. They had grown up in countries ravaged by the Crisis and abandoned by the world at large. Their hatred belies fear, and yet - Yet rather than leave Zenyatta in pain, he’s grabbed a handful of Hog's scrap, pulled out an emergency tool kit from who-knows-where and starts working. Hanzo takes a spot a reasonable distance away and watches out of the corner of his eye. Junkrat hums to himself while he works, twirling wrenches, chewing on the handles of screwdrivers, muttering curses every now and then. He’s uncannily adept at working with one hand, nimble fingers and calculated movements. It’s entrancing to watch. He has to tear his eyes away.

 

He should meditate, not yearn.

  
"Jus' call me Doctor Boom." He says, eyes alight when Tracer compliments his work. Zenyatta’s arm seems better. Where it’s been repaired is obvious, the rusted scrap metal bits contrasting sharply with the original sleek chrome.

 

“Alrighty then Zen! You know the rules, yeah?” Trazer chirps, plopping down next to the injured omnic, waving three playing cards.    
  
“I do recall.” Zenyatta has humor in his voice.

 

“Great!” Tracer giggles, holding the three cards out face down.

 

Zenyatta takes care to place a Harmony orb on them, one by one. Hanzo is the last to receive its calming effects, but even the waves of peace that the Orb sends through his being cannot calm the restlessness he feels. He sits. He closes his eyes. He empties his mind - but it does not last. There’s too much about him.

 

Like sharp laughter, high and free and -

 

No. no. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.   
  
Inhale. Hold. Exhale -  _ gold _

  
The plane lands after far too long, and Hanzo feels more worn than he had when he boarded.

 

“You stay here, you heap a’ scrap. ‘M gonna get Mercy.” Junkrat doesn’t hiss the insult. Doesn’t even sneer. It was casual and empty - a surprise. Everyone had believed Zaryanova would be the first of them to warm up to Zenyatta. There was a betting pool. Hanzo knows for a fact that the cowman had place a heavy sum on Zarya. He’s going to be very disappointed.

 

It seems like Junkrat never ceases in the quashing of expectations.

 

Hanzo watches him dart off. He’s agile and fast despite his leg. Gathering up what little energy he has left, Hanzo makes to follow the team inside the base, to retreat to his own quarters to rest, perhaps make a stop at the mess hall for some tea, but a hand finds his shoulder. Stops him, mid-stride.

 

It’s a cold hand, metal. Zenyatta. Hanzo straightens, faces the omnic. He hopes his face is well-guarded, he’s too weary to veil his emotions properly. 

  
"From what Genji has told me, your life has been a grave affair for a long time. You've been entrenched in too much darkness." The omnic's tinny voice is even and calm, but Hanzo grew up with Genji. He can smell mischief from a mile away. He holds his tongue, waiting to see where this conversation will lead.    
  
"You seek atonement, but deny yourself the pleasures of life that will aid in your healing." Zenyatta continues, turning away only ever so slightly. He gazes off into the distance, into the clouds and evening autumn mists of the Gibraltar base.    
  
"... There is no shame in yearning for sunlight." There is a smile in the omnic's voice as he turns back to face him, but he doesn't face Hanzo. Not really - his gaze is behind him and Hanzo pales as he follows it. Junkrat, returning with Dr. Zeigler, waves, wearing a smile brighter than the sun.    
  
In that single moment, that half of a split second, Hanzo feels his heart jump and freeze in his throat. He doesn't return Junkrat's amicable air. He doesn't so much as nod. He cannot. He cannot bring himself to move, and the exact cause is unknown. Is it fear? Shame? Resentment? He does not know. He doesn't know anything right now, his mind and heart are a mess - more of a mess than ever before.    
  
After all, this is how it gets worse.


End file.
